Self-injury (idea)

June 5th, 2002
Dearest *,
So, an explanation is in order here.
Three thousand, four hundred and thirty-eight pages later, I’d feel I wasn’t giving you what you deserved if I didn’t give you, at the very least, an explanation. I feel like I owe it to us.

As time went on that afternoon, the hand moved up down and around, but never to the thigh. My horribly twisted joke had failed. But I didn’t worry, no, there was always tomorrow. Upon returning home I looked and was put off by how quickly a few impressions of a safety pin can fade away, so I made it look more presentable. It didn’t seem as worth it when I was done – I took a picture to remind myself of the sheer stupidity and found a bandage. This wasn’t to be as funny as I’d hoped.

The next day comes, and sure enough, had it not been covered by a band-aid my plan would have worked; it would have at the very least caused pause to my unsuspecting suitor. I could have had a nice laugh at his expense – something my bitter little heart can use when I’m trying to avoid becoming attached to the bearer of another immanent rejection (what would be my third this year). I had marred my canvas not from pain or hate or obsessive love for you, it had nothing to do with you really, I branded from some cinematographic beauty I saw in the scene from a distance.

Pan in from corner.
Innocent young girl being devirginized by resident high school doormat appreciator. As man approaches ‘the goods’, he finds himself becoming increasingly aroused until – hark! What’s this? His best friends name on the girl’s leg – a sure guarantee to take some of the fun out of what he was planning on doing.
Zoom in on the name. Cut to Guy’s facial expression. Cut to zoom on in Girl’s eyes.
Fade out.

Nevertheless, after Friday, the warning from April 22nd and the promise of a silent murder mingled and mixed until I made the decision. I figured hopefully you’d be able to understand and laugh along upon finding out; it’s the kind of dark twisted humor you’d appreciate. I hadn’t realized the ultimatum might come into play before I got a chance to explain myself. Then, of course, you ask for help the one fool I was expending so much energy ruining – of course he’d think you were doing the right thing by breaking the links.

Never is a long time. If you want a trial separation, we can arrange that. We can stop talking for a month or two or three or nine, but I’d like it to be a decidedly finite period of time. Nothing but loss and pain comes from a never; forever silent keeps nobody happy. I honestly believe were we to sit down in person one day and have a little chat about things, we might be able to sort out some of the inherent misunderstandings I’ve found in our day to day interaction. We might be able to learn to recognize each other’s jokes, maybe even laugh at a few of them.
Of course, this plea is sounded to deaf ears.
I’ve found myself going through the stages of grief, but they’re interrupted each day yet; it can be hard to get over a death (even a metaphorical one) when you’re forever haunted by ghosts.